My friend Mr Greedy, or the worm who refused to turn
by Rosywonder
Summary: What is a man to do, especially a man called Napoleon Solo, when a very unwelcome guest comes to stay and won't leave? Written as my response to the poster my good friend Spikesgirl posted over on LiveJournal. Hope you enjoy my kind of humour, at Napoleon's expense of course.


MY FRIEND MR GREEDY, OR THE WORM THAT WOULDN'T TURN

Since I took over in Waverly's chair, I've noticed that everyone suddenly thinks my partner is the fount of all wisdom. If I had a dollar for every time somebody's said, in my hearing usually, 'Ask Mr Kuryakin' or even 'Ask Illya' I could have retired from here a wealthy man. And it doesn't end there. Outside these walls, just substitute the word 'papa' or 'my son' and we're off again. Even Frank, my barber came out with 'Now why don't you ask Mr K?' the other day, which is pretty near incredible seeing that if he had to rely on Kuryakin's custom he'd have gone out of business long ago. It's not that I don't value Illya's opinion, I do. Without him by my side I wouldn't even be alive today, never mind be in Section I, but sometimes it gets a little too much to bear, even for someone as long suffering as I am.

The business of my friend Mr G, how he got to be so intimately acquainted, and how our ways parted, is one case where Mr Know-All didn't have the answer, although that didn't stop him from trying. Some people in this organisation who should know better have linked it in some way to my visit to the gym for that damn check-up, but I can state categorically that this was just an unfortunate and rather cruel coincidence.

When I was in the field more or less full-time the issue of fitness was towards the top of the agenda, in fact it was an essential part of the success of our partnership. I was pretty much in shape then, but even six months of being in Waverly's shoes had left me not quite as fit as I had been even a year before. Not that this seemed to affect Kuryakin, I have to admit. He was still in the field some of the time, the rest working on all the things I thought needed doing to make UNCLE more effective. Unlike me, he managed to find time to be in the gym and still continue all that running he seems to like doing at godforsaken times of the day. Anyway, back to the check-up.

They've introduced (I say 'they', I actually mean Illya) this assessment procedure for everyone who works here now; some kind of machine that measures stuff like 'visceral fat' and checks whether you've drunk enough water. Just the sort of anal stuff Illya likes. He was in there when I came up, standing talking to Ingo, his personal trainer and number one sadist, at the gym desk. He glanced round when I came in and gave me a look which I could have predicted, seeing he's been not so subtly hinting about my absences from this place for the last six months.

'Ah hello Napoleon' he said, a thinly suppressed smile insinuating itself onto his face for all to see. 'Ingo and I have just been discussing you.' I bet they were.

'Glad to see you have so much time to waste' I said rather caustically, noticing his lips twitch slightly. For a man who had nearly died the previous year saving me from an equally unpleasant end, he looked pretty damn good, and, although I would never have admitted it to him, I felt a little bad that I hadn't made the effort to keep in shape like he had. Ingo beckoned me towards the room they use for these sort of 'assessments', the usual sadistic expression on his face that these PT guys have when they're about to make you suffer.

Illya was back in the office when I returned, checking something about the air con with an engineer. The air quality in this room was now a whole world away from what it used to be since he'd re-designed the filtration system and banned any kind of smoking on the premises. The memory of Waverly and his pipe suddenly made a little dent of happiness in my otherwise pretty miserable morning.

I slammed the report Ingo had given me on the circular table, noticing the engineer simultaneously back away rapidly and disappear through the doors as I spun the table towards Kuryakin. He wore his glasses more or less all the time now, so his judgement on the whole sorry mess that was my body wasn't long in coming.

'I told you, Napoleon; a sedentary lifestyle, stress and the wrong kinds of food and drink will result in this' he pronounced, waving the damn thing at me, as if I didn't know.

'Well, what do you expect me to do, swallow a worm?' I muttered, pretending to look at another report waiting for me, pretending I didn't care as much as I did. He did his usual thing of looking over his glasses at me, before sending the report spinning back.

'Of course not. That would be rather the easy option, don't you think?' The irony of these two statements was not to escape us later.

We later agreed that it was at Waverly's so-called leaving party when it all began. I say 'so-called' because he had actually retired some months before, but, like all things in organisations like UNCLE, it took time to put together and get the people who needed to be there to agree dates. The security was another matter, of course. Illya was up to his ears in so many other things, I re-assigned the security for the party to Glenn Masterson, one of the Section III heads who seemed to be pretty up to the mark on these things. Kuryakin, as usual, wasn't so convinced, but let it stand.

I had made a start on the programme Ingo had insisted on, but I knew from the start the party was going to be a challenge. Someone whose first name was probably Delilah, had put together the sort of buffet food that increases your waist measurement by two inches just by being in near proximity to the table. My best tuxedo was now doing its utmost to remind me of this by digging unmercifully into my gut as I noticed Illya sauntering up, a warning look sweeping across his face as he took in the gargantuan fare before us.

'Don't even think about it' he murmured, picking up a vol-au-vent the size of a traffic cone crammed with shrimp and cream cheese. I needed to walk away from the food and him, but even more than that, I needed a drink.

I looked round for a waitress, not being particularly over impressed by what was going round the room on trays. Later, I spent a lot of time wondering why I hadn't noticed I was being singled out for special attention, but I didn't. From the other side of the room, I could see that Alexander Waverly and his wife were managing to break out of the coterie surrounding them and head in my direction via Illya, who seemed to be in the midst of one of those conversations I often saw him having with his wife, their body language telling anyone with even the intuitive sense of a sideboard that years of marriage and innumerable children had not dulled their fascination with each other.

I assumed it was a cocktail from the shape of the glass and the slight opacity of the liquid inside, but by this time I was feeling so sorry for myself that if it had been bright purple with roaches swimming inside I would have drunk it. Watching Illya and Tess (I blamed him for this later) had been so occupying my attention that afterwards I couldn't quite recall who had actually given it me, despite Kuryakin undertaking what amounted to Soviet style interrogation techniques to make me remember. I do remember that it tasted pretty good, the kind of drink you consider having again to compare the experience. I attempted to locate the origin both of the drink and the provider but by then the Waverlys were upon me, and so, for the moment, all other thoughts disappeared in the pleasure of their company.

To be honest, I didn't really give it much thought after, my new role in UNCLE, just as it had for my predecessor, becoming insidiously all enveloping as the hours slipped into days and weeks. To my amazement, the gym programme seemed to be working, and working rather too well, according to my partner and gym expert of course.

'You need to be careful' he opined one morning; 'the weight appears to be falling off you a little too rapidly, Napoleon.' I didn't admit to him that since the night of the party I had made no effort whatsoever to diet. I was actually finding the gym sessions helpful, but whether they made me hungrier or because I just lacked willpower, I felt no hesitation in enjoying a spot of fine dining on a regular basis in the many restaurants New York has to tempt any overworked exec looking for a spot of comfort eating. The surprising thing was that, despite my initial guilt at my secret excesses, it seemed to have no effect on my weight; in fact it was exactly the opposite. Illya did look genuinely worried though, in fact so worried that an invitation to attend tea at the Kuryakin household was immediately forthcoming. After rapidly deciding whether I was mentally strong enough to endure it, I accepted.

'I have an appointment up in Medical then I'll be along' I said, steeling myself for the usual organised chaos dining 'chez Kuryakin' usually meant.

Why is it that children have such exceptional hearing that they pick up words said _sotto voce_ and definitely not supposed to be in earshot, and then broadcast it round the room at a decibel rate equal to a low flying airplane? Illya is used to hearing things that might make others gasp or cringe, and then not repeating them, but sadly, his children have not inherited this gift from either him or their mother. I noticed him watching me demolish the meal Tess had provided at about the same speed as his four year old twins, his mildly amused look shared by his wife, while their eldest daughter, Pascale surveyed the scene with one of those slightly superior, puzzled Kuryakin expressions I knew only too well. It was only later as I helped him wash up that I revealed, somewhat hesitantly, a possible explanation for my rapidly changing body size and enormous appetite.

'A worm?' he hissed, at the very moment an unusual hush had taken place round the table, probably the moment when second helpings of jam roly-poly were on offer, and Pascale was making another round of the table wiping hands and faces. At once six pairs of eyes were riveted in my direction, the twins now starting a kind of mantra involving the word 'wormy' until at last a sharp glance from their father silenced them.

'Valya ate a worm last week' Anastasiya, Kuryakin's flame-headed six year old burst out, the subject of her statement nodding his head vigorously as they all began to discuss worms with gusto round the table. Illya put down the plate he had been washing and turned to me, a pained look on his face.

'And you have no idea who gave you this _creature_,' he continued, shaking his head slightly, as if the idea hadn't quite sunk in.

I sighed. 'No, but I imagine it came via a very unusual and extremely strong cocktail that I had at Waverly's party.'

Kuryakin's response was interrupted by his eldest daughter Pascale, who had appeared noiselessly by my side, a small folder in her hand. On the cover, underneath what I considered a very lurid picture of the head of a worm complete with a nasty looking set of hooks and some strange suckers, was the title.

'Parasitic flatworms by Pascale Kuryakin' the author read out in a tone I recognised. 'I chose this subject for my term assignment, Uncle Napoleon, which was lucky, wasn't it?'

'Miraculous'

'I've marked the section I think you should study, Uncle Napoleon. There.' She pointed with a long, delicate finger to the marked paragraph. '_Polygonoporus giganticus_; the whale tapeworm. It can grow to thirty metres, that's a hundred feet to you, Uncle.' It wasn't necessary to look at her father; I could just imagine his expression so I didn't give him the satisfaction of even glancing in his direction.

'Well, that's very interesting, Pascale, thank you.'

After a very unpleasant weekend at the hands, or should I say hooks of my new best friend, I returned to the office on Monday. Kuryakin was in his usual place, sifting through some files on the latest intelligence concerning Eastern Europe, a not so UNCLE folder placed in front of my chair as I came back from my latest of many visits to the rest room and sat gloomily across from him. He didn't look up as I grasped the folder and opened it.

'I must thank you for disclosing that piece of personal information to my children on Friday evening' he said without a trace of irony. 'It kept them busy all weekend making that for you.' Breathing in, I drew out a small hand-made book from the folder.

'Mr Greedy' I read, wincing slightly at the more colourful interpretation of Pascale's anatomically correct drawing of the worm, which now sported two eyes and a large smile underneath the suckers.

The book had several pages, all featuring Mr Greedy and also me, or rather a kind of x-ray version of me where one could see inside my digestive tract. Unflatteringly, I looked rather large on the first page, Mr Greedy naturally appearing as a tiny version of himself comfortably settled in my gut.

'On Sunday Uncle Napoleon swallowed Mr Greedy' the sad tale began, subsequent pages explaining my eating habits, or should I say Mr Greedy's eating habits as the days went by. Wednesday was particularly graphic, a larger, grinning version of Mr G chomping away at a very large amount of pasta which had somehow found its way into my bowel undigested until it had met my friend the worm.

Kuryakin was by now working very hard to look inscrutable, his lips twisting around like they had a life of their own.

'I like the use of patterned language in the text' he offered in a rather schoolmasterly voice, before adding, 'they haven't finished it yet, of course, and to be slightly more serious about this Napoleon, I can offer no solution to your problem beyond that suggested to you by your doctor, which as you said on Friday, has been a total failure.' I tried to glare at him, but, to be honest, it was a delightful book, and, as Illya had said, mirrored my own quandary perfectly.

'Tell them it is wonderful and I am very grateful' I managed. I turned to the last page. I was now quite accurately drawn as a thin man with a now rather long and unwelcome guest. Alarmingly, Mr G was now looking a little angrier than before and also sported a large moustache.

Suddenly, something in my subconscious jerked itself into the front of my mind. I leapt to my feet, fleetingly startling Kuryakin from his contemplation of Soviet movements in Mongolia.

'I think I know just the person to help matters' I murmured, grabbing my coat; 'depending on whether she has something to gain from it, that is.'

I've always admired those old apartments bordering Central Park; the Dakota, for instance, such an emblem of the city in another, grander age, with its carriageway and its great flaming torches shouting class and wealth to those lesser beings passing by. I imagined she still lived in the same apartment, but at any rate, it was the only address I had, and besides that, I knew the doorman, an old employee of UNCLE when Illya and I were no more than greenhorn kids it seemed.

Despite the exercise, I found the stairs too much to handle in my present state, and took the elevator, one of those elegant pieces of machinery with clanging gates guaranteed to amputate fingers if you didn't have lightning reflexes. What had seemed a good idea as I left UNCLE now felt a little less certain as I neared the door, particularly as I hadn't bothered to run it past Kuryakin before I left. I found myself shrugging all the same, and the words 'here goes nothing' played through my mind as I gave the door a less than confident knock.

For a moment there was nothing, and then she was there, much as I had last seen her, wearing the sort of clothes most people consider suitable for a night at the Four Seasons, but which for her, were everyday wear.

'Darling, at last. I wondered how long it would take you to seek help in the right direction.' I felt myself smile, but not confidently. Entering Angelique's world was never a comfortable experience, or at least, one had to be perpetually on one's guard if one was to live to recount the experience afterwards. The apartment was, as ever, a grandiose statement of the sort of woman she was, the furnishings elaborate, French and extremely expensive.

I took my coat off, aware that her expression contained both shock and also knowledge. She immediately came up very close to me in the way she always did, the overpowering scent of Chanel a kind of signature that she was present. After considering for a moment whether there might be any danger in her lipstick I kissed her, always a superlative experience with Angelique.

Like the room and her appearance, the drinks were top of the range and available immediately. I hesitated for a fraction of a second before sipping the Sazerac she had proffered.

'So darling, I can see that Langoustine has had her way with you.'

I put down my drink. Obviously the woman in question could only be a THRUSH agent; no sane person would either name or choose the name of a shrimp to call themselves by, I thought. Despite going over the events of the evening with Illya what felt like a thousand times and achieving nothing, the mere mention of this name evoked something in me. Before, I could only focus on the drink; now I began to see its provider.

'I guess that's why she was wearing dark glasses and had all that platinum hair' I replied, watching Angelique affirm my thoughts with a twitch of her exceptional glossy red lips.

'Exactly so, darling. She wears the spectacles to hide her little pink eyes. Like a rabbit' she said, a nasty edge to her voice I recognised when the act slipped a little. She got up and poured herself another glass of pink champagne, sipping it meditatively for a while. 'As you know, our organisation suffered a little setback last year and, well, there have been some new faces recently, who seem to have something to prove, if you understand me.'

'Uh-huh. So this Langoustine thought she would do something to gain a little attention in high places, yes?' I could see immediately where this conversation was going, a place I was very happy with. 'Am I right in saying then' I continued 'that your offer of help is not entirely out of the goodness of your heart?'

She smiled rather laconically and drew closer. 'Oh I'm disappointed in you darling' she simpered. 'Surely you must realise that I only want what is best for, well, both of us.' I nodded, finding it hard to prevent a cynical smile from smearing itself across my face.

'Of course not' I managed. 'Naturally, you have only my best interests at heart, but if Miss Shrimp were to somehow be apprehended, then, well, everyone's a winner, yes? However, be that as it may, that does not entirely solve my . . . problem.'

As if to draw attention to the fact, she began to loosen my tie and unbutton my shirt, revealing my less than powerful chest beneath. She ran several long red fingernails down my midline before turning away and sauntering off in the direction of the bar.

'Don't ever say, as your blond friend so often does, that Angelique is incapable of compassion' she murmured in my direction, while simultaneously drawing a silver cocktail shaker towards her. I must admit that the words 'Angelique' and 'compassion' didn't automatically go together in my mind, but I let it pass for now. I could hear my 'blond friend' warning me very loudly not to trust her, but in a desperate situation, desperate measures were called for, and I was desperate.

She returned to the couch, a cocktail glass filled with something which definitely did not resemble anything I knew or had drunk before.

'Before you drink this' she said, holding it front of me like a scene from Snow White and the Seven Dwarves, ' I do rather think you should tell your blond friend where to collect Langoustine from, in that rather efficient way he usually does everything, don't you think?' She came closer, waving the glass in front of me in a kind of hypnotic way I found a little unsettling. 'I think you may need to lie down for a while then, darling.'

I sighed rather grimly and drew out my communicator.

'You do realise that there will be hell to pay if things do not go exactly to plan' I said, wondering what exactly the plan was. Angelique pouted, the sort of pretend hurt expression on her face I had seen on many occasions when I dared to suggest she could not be entirely trusted.

'But it will be worth it darling' she crooned seductively in my ear.

'Four days. _Four days_ have passed since your _communication_, Napoleon!'

I always like it when Illya gets really furious, because it happens so seldom. You just never see him really letting off, like so many people round here when something doesn't go just the way they want it to. I swear that if it was possible steam would literally issue forth out of that blond thatch like a proverbial railway engine. Usually there is a very good reason for it, and usually it's something to do with me, but then, nobody's perfect.

After he'd calmed down I did explain, and he had had to admit that bringing in Langoustine had been an interesting experience.

'I can see why Angelique might see her as worthy opposition' he had mused over his coffee the following day when, after a night at home in the arms of a beautiful woman he had calmed down sufficiently to even allow himself a slight smirk at one of my better jokes. I didn't enquire as to what had happened with Shrimpy; it wasn't advisable.

The day after that, I found another gift from the same pen that had brought me 'Mr Greedy.' The last few pages were interesting. From what I could see, Mr Greedy did not like Angelique's cocktail at all from the look on his face. The toilet scene at the end was almost sad if it hadn't occasioned the most enormous sense of relief at the parting of the ways between me and my very long friend.

Goodbye Mr Greedy, and don't bother coming back any time soon.


End file.
